


Neutralize the Noise

by Senket



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Infidelity, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-23
Updated: 2011-02-23
Packaged: 2017-11-15 15:08:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,433
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/528596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Senket/pseuds/Senket
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p> Lestrade's job is chaos and noise. Sherlock is chaos and noise. His home is chaos and noise. He needs peace and quiet before he crashes and burns. Mycroft is just that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Neutralize the Noise

**Author's Note:**

> Sherlock is rude to Anderson and Donovan because he's lived through that relationship problem- they're rude to him because he almost destroyed their boss. See, no one has to be a complete ass in this. (But Anderson still is somehow, isn't he?  =p ) Dedicated to the lovely [](http://athena-ergane.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://athena-ergane.livejournal.com/)**athena_ergane**  , whom I am trying to induct into the Mycroft/Lestrade love.

When Lestrade first met Sherlock, it had been during a drugs raid. The barely-thirties man had been glorious and brilliant, despite glazed eyes and quivering muscles, so fucking smart. Mycroft Holmes was the strange older brother that showed up occasionally to pay bail and usher the younger man away.

After a harrowing case (Sherlock sticking his nose everywhere until they all wanted to kill him, and then solving it in less time than it had taken them to _identify_ the victim) a few months after their first meeting, the so-called ‘consulting detective’ had slammed him against a wall, mouths locked. Knowing what little he did about Sherlock Holmes already, the whole thing was a bad idea.

Sherlock had a way of doing things, though, and when he wanted his way, then- good luck. It might’ve been the man’s long fingers already in his trousers, but Lestrade let it happen.

And then it kept happening. At first it was after cases. After a while, it was when Sherlock got bored in between, too. When the man turned up at his flat one afternoon, complaining of having been evicted, Lestrade let him move in. He’d intended it to be temporary. It wasn’t.

Mycroft Holmes became something else then, something substantial. They started to have dinner once a month, always the richer man’s treat, to speak about Sherlock, his attitude, his progress (or lack thereof) on ridding himself of his more unsavoury habits.

Lestrade’s work was messy and frustrating and noisy. A year ago, he would have taken the edge off simply by going home, watching telly with a lager and an easy diner. Now Sherlock was there, and Sherlock was messy and frustrating and noisy. Good luck going to a (messy, frustrating, noisy) pub for a pint, either. Someone was always bound to find him- other policemen, people he’d helped, people whose loved ones he’d locked up- they’d leave him alone if he was _with_ someone, but he didn’t _want_ to be with someone in a pub.

He never got a second of quiet, and he felt it fray his nerves, tear him apart bit by bit until he had no defences again the _noise._

And then there was dinner with Mycroft Holmes: quiet, calm, long and relaxed, private rooms or at least places that felt private, attentive but carefully unobtrusive waiters, good wine, good food, good conversation, good company and, most importantly, _constancy_.

The first time was a happy happenstance. He was drunk and fighting bone-deep exhaustion, shivering with need. He didn’t even know what Sherlock was on currently, didn’t have the energy to fight, didn’t have money to buy even takeout, and Mycroft was taking care of him.

“The least I could do,” the elder Holmes said, among a muddle of words that meant something else. The man’s fingers had been warm and steady against the back of his neck.

“I don’t want to go back,” he’d half-sobbed, forehead pressed against his knees.

He hadn’t seen, but Mycroft had smiled then, a soft sad little thing. He did feel Mycroft’s thumb stroke down his neck as the man gave his driver a new address, solid and consistent pressure, something to concentrate on. He felt weak with relief as the sound in his head slowly receded. 

He leaned against Mycroft’s arm when they took a lift (pass card required) up to a gigantic penthouse in absolute central London. Funny, he’d thought the government official would have his own mansion. Perhaps a weekend house, then? Mycroft manoeuvred him to a leather armchair near the fire-grate.

Lestrade laughed to himself, sleepy and warm, slouching. Hell, if Mycroft could trust Gregory Lestrade with his younger brilliant druggie of a brother, why shouldn’t he trust him with the layout of his flat?

The blessed silence calmed him, wrapped around his fraying mind. Mycroft offered a nightcap, and when Lestrade sighed and didn’t fight to stand the man smiled and vanished for a moment, returning with a round glass of single-malt.

He stood by the mantle, watching, talking about little pointless things- when Lestrade stopped responding, verbally or otherwise, Mycroft lapsed into a careful but comfortable silence, watching over the tired policeman.

He carried off the tray when Lestrade finished his drink and left him alone for a few to find a bundle of covers; Lestrade watched him quietly when Mycroft returned (waistcoat unbuttoned, jacket gone, sleeves rolled up to his elbow, tie unknotted, and suddenly so soft around the edges) and smiled when the somewhat plump man perched on the edge of the armchair.

There was only one seat despite clearly being in a sitting room, no couch but rows and rows of books against the walls. Clearly Mycroft didn’t keep company here. Lestrade felt a flush of warmth at the thought of being the first one to see the other man’s hiding hole.

“Let’s get you to bed,” Mycroft said, wrapping his hand around the detective’s elbow, tugging him out of the armchair.

Only one bed, that meant, and he hadn’t seen a couch anywhere. Lestrade slouched and dragged his feet as they moved, leaning against the other man sleepily. It was plenty big, the mattress a little softer than he would’ve liked. He watched as Mycroft helped him out of his shoes, his jacket, the gun holster he’d never had a chance to take off. Barely moved as careful hands stripped him down to trousers and an undershirt, pushing him back into the pillows and drawing the covers up around him.

“Haven’t been tucked into bed since I was eight, I think,” he told the Mycroft, humour soft in his voice, eyes already closed as he shifted deeper into thick, luxurious pillows.

He didn’t receive an answer, though he did hear the quiet chuckle. Mycroft stroked his fingers down the covers once more, flattening out some creases, before standing to go. Lestrade snatched his wrist, squinting up at him.

Mycroft blinked down at him, surprised, shooting a startled glance at his arm when Lestrade stroked a thumb along the soft skin. “Where were you intending on sleeping, exactly?”

‘Smart man,’ the official thought fondly. God, of course he was. Smart, and saintly, anyone had to be to watch after Sherlock for that length of time. Smart, saintly, sweet, sharp, strong, sensible, sentimental, shrewd, steady, _stunning_... he could go on. Mycroft merely smiled diplomatically, fingers tensing in response to the careful touch.

Lestrade narrowed his eyes, lips pressed together, before cocking an eyebrow, reeling the man in until he had no choice but to sit back down or risk falling over onto the detective. “Don’t be stupid. Plenty of room.”

“I believe, Detective Inspector Lestrade, that you are previously engaged with a close member of my family.”

“Tosh,” the man mumbled back, already settling back down to sleep, though he had refused to let go until Mycroft moved to strip his loafers. “Don’t pretend this is about Sherlock.” He eased his way across the bed to make room for the other man, stretching onto his stomach. “Greg will do me fine, by the way,” he said, voice muffled by pillow and sleepiness.

\------------

“You slept with my brother.” Sherlock loomed from the door, eyes bruised purple and black, ever so pale as he stared down at the detective, arms crossed tightly over his chest.

“Slept with? Yes. _Slept_ with? Not so much.” Lestrade didn’t seem impressed, running his thumb lightly over the blades of his razor as he leaned over the chipped porcelain sink. Personally he was a little surprised Sherlock had even been at home- if you could call it that.

Sherlock sneered, stretching himself across the doorway, filling space. It might’ve been more intimidating if he hadn’t been shivering, bent from hunger he ignored and need for a hit he let consume him. “What’s wrong, you need someone stable to take care of you like you’re a child?”

Lestrade knew what had born Sherlock’s anger. The words were not exact, but Mycroft had said more or less that to him, when he’d first become acquainted with the younger Holmes, _about_ the younger Holmes. At the time he’d been so willing to change Sherlock’s life, throw in his energy and devotion and love to take the irate, lost, _brilliant_ man and make him everything, give him something worth the world. Only, Sherlock didn’t want anything he had to offer except his job. His drug habit had not slowed down in the least, despite _living_ with a copper. His relationship with Lestrade only made him more relentlessly rude in front of the other officers at cases, pushing them (and him) far past reasonable tolerance. Refusing to let the man ( _boy)_ accompany him to crime scenes didn’t help, not when Sherlock could guess all his passwords in a moment and jury rig a radio to catch police frequencies in less.He was so _tired_ now. He wasn’t ashamed of it.

“Yes, Sherlock,” he answered softly, tossing his razor into the sink without care, running his fingers lightly over his stubble. Who cared? Everyone knew he was only trying to keep up appearances. The only strangers he met were dead. “That’s exactly what I need.”

Waking up to a warm hand against his cheek, breakfast on the side table beside his phone (turned off), instead of to a heartless diatribe, loud, harsh and undeserved; waking after a solid night of sleep instead of to a junkie playing violin quickly and messily or throwing things about or slamming doors as he left or came back or just went outside to smoke.

Tenderness and silence instead of a constant cutting whirlwind of noise and blame. God, that was what he wanted, so badly, so much it _hurt_.

He cared about Sherlock, he really did, but he couldn’t do _this_ anymore.

Sherlock seemed to have seen the entire revelation on his face, because he’d gone still, a flash of emotion in his eyes. Lestrade wasn’t sure whether it was anger or hurt or hatred, or if it wasn’t just simple confusion. He thought maybe that was the worst of it all- he couldn’t tell.

Sherlock liked his cases and liked his hair and his fingers and his cigarettes, and Sherlock might even like _him_ , but there was just no connection between them. He could sort of track the man’s thought pattern out of habit when it came to deduction, but that was really it. No matter what he’d given over the past three years, Sherlock had never given anything back, and that just wasn’t any way to live.

He leaned down to wash his face, and by the time he’d dried his neck with the flannel Sherlock had already left.

The fights got worse. Then they got _public_. Soon Sherlock was actively taking him- his work and his private life- apart in front of his team, flaw after mistake after flaw.

He was blessed to have them, because instead of sneering they formed a barricade around him during cases whenever Sherlock bothered to hang around.

Sherlock quickly started to get vocal about it at home, and he wondered if that was the man being hurt or just defensive. If he was reacting out of hurt, at least it meant that he _cared_ that people thought Gregory Lestrade needed to be protected from him.

The second time he stayed over was on purpose. So was the third, fourth, fifth and sixth.

A particularly cruel session of tear-the-detective-apart,caused by Greg smoking the last cigarette after flushing Sherlock’s badly-hidden cache of drugs down the toilet, involved enough shouting to call coppers on the scene. Senseless from anger, Lestrade packed an overnight bag and stomped off to the pub. He was there less than a quarter-hour when the exhaustion crept up his throat. Despite their next rendezvous not being due for another two weeks, Lestrade texted Mycroft.

[SMS] GET ME THE HELL AWAY FROM HERE.

He pressed his forehead against the oak table when he didn’t immediately receive an answer, wondering if he was overstepping some sort of boundary. Hell if he could care, at this point.

Lestrade was so busy regulating his breathing, trying to tune out the waves of sound crashing against him, that he didn’t notice the approaching body until he felt a firm hand against his arm. Blinking up at the figure beside him, he felt a tilted smile crack against his cheek. “Mycroft.”

The eldest Holmes smiled down at him genially, inclining his head towards the exit. Lestrade stood up in an instant, crowding closer than he perhaps ought have when he followed the other man.

Lestrade spent the car ride watching the government official work, drumming his fingers against the bag lodged between them.

Things didn’t get out of hand until the lift, when he threw his bag down and plastered himself against the older man (unfortunately and irritatingly reminiscent of his first experience with Sherlock, only without bold fingers, and yes, he knew _he_ was the addict in this story, but he didn’t care,) tongue and teeth questing as he kissed the other man blind.

“Sherlock-” Mycroft started, breaths shallow and quick, when Lestrade pulled back, the lift doors opening.

“Never you mind Sherlock,” Lestrade snarled, eyes fixed on the man’s swollen lips, “come on.”

\-------

Lestrade didn’t go home the next morning either, more than content to use Mycroft’s bathroom and shower and razor and shaving cream and towels and cologne. It wasn’t the first time, either, but he didn’t doubt Sherlock could tell the difference between ‘because it was there’ and ‘because we shagged,’ and even more specifically ‘because _I_ wanted to, and it had _nothing_ to do with you, you complete tit.’

It didn’t. Lestrade didn’t want to get back at Sherlock. Yes, their relationship was utterly destroying him and, yes, it _had_ pushed him to Mycroft, but Mycroft was _Mycroft_ , insanely clever, cautious, caring, reserved, witty, sneakily sarcastic Mycroft, and what idiot wouldn’t want _that_ in their life when they had the chance?

Sherlock didn’t say anything that night. Oh, he _knew_ , that much was clear, but he didn’t actually _say_ anything. Maybe he’d seen it coming- hell, of _course_ he’d seen it coming. Maybe that was why it got so bad.

Lestrade had been a cop most of his life, and he hadn’t always been in the murder squad. He’d been to plenty of domestic disturbance cases, and he knew that in terms of bad relationships, affection just sometimes couldn’t save anything. Sometimes there was no fixing things. Sometimes, you just had to cut and run.

So he did.

It took almost a month and an insurmountable amount of rows, but in the end he left. Not to move in with Mycroft, far too soon for that, but just _out_. He left.

“It’s so easy to just stay like this for you,” he’d said. “You’re not going to change, not for me. Not while I’m here. I have to leave, Sherlock.”

Sherlock had screamed something about Mycroft and enemies and idiots, and Lestrade wondered if maybe Sherlock really cared after all.

Mycroft refused to see him for the first few weeks, no doubt out of guilt. Lestrade waited it out, because it was worth it.

Cases with Sherlock were strained for a long while. Every once in a while the man would turn up at his flat, press himself up against the detective, kissing dirty and hard, but Lestrade never gave in, pushing the lanky body off. They’d share a cigarette before Greg would turn him away.

Sherlock got kicked out of the flat they had once shared. Then the astounding happened- Sherlock slowly started to change: not in character, but in the one way Lestrade had always hoped he would. Sherlock slowed down his drug use.

After three consecutive cases Sherlock had turned up for sober, the younger man appeared at Lestrade’s flat, looking white and underfed, exhausted but still clean. “Can I come in?”

Lestrade didn’t fool himself to think Sherlock had stopped completely, but he inclined his head, letting the man in. They ordered Chinese, Sherlock’s eyes razor-sharp on him.

They talked about Sherlock’s current situation, Lestrade finding himself smiling more than once. He wasn’t sure they’d ever _had_ this sort of conversation. But when it came down to it- “Can I move in?”- he knew there was no going back.

For one, he knew returning to their old living arrangement might very well reverse Sherlock’s new habits as well. More importantly, he just- he didn’t want it anymore. As bad as it could be to say, he’d found better.

Mycroft (even though the bastard hadn’t called him back in weeks, never mind met him in person) understood Lestrade’s situation, even sympathized. Wouldn’t mind the strange, long hours (he had them too, anyway), wouldn’t mind sudden calls in the middle of the night (most would probably be his own), wouldn’t mock Lestrade for wanting a nap and a cuddle (would join him instead of calling him a child that needed indulgence), and would show some courtesy, respect, _care_ , not because he was asked (not that Sherlock had when he _did_ ask) but because he’d want to.

“I’m sorry, Sherlock. This thing between us- it’s been outlived.”

The younger man inspected the planes of his face, eyes narrowed, lips paling as they pressed together. Eventually Sherlock sighed, standing. “I see. Good night then.”

Lestrade smiled and moved to see Sherlock out. Standing close together in the doorway, he felt his eyes close as a familiar touch creased over the taunt lines of his neck. Sherlock breathed a soft, final kiss against his lips and slid into the night.

[SMS] SHERLOCK’S CERTAINLY DOING MUCH BETTER FOR HIMSELF

He smiled wanly at his phone, tracing his fingers over dents. He remembered shared laughter over Mycroft’s texting habits (rather than lack thereof.)

“Sherlock does so love texting,” the elder sibling had said, mischief creasing the lines of his mouth. “Of course, he’s utterly convinced I loathe it. It is _so_ much easier to determine how someone really feels when one can hear their voice, but-” he leaned forward, then, and Greg had leant towards him also, entranced by the conspiratory smile- “of course it’s so easy to annoy him that way.”

Mycroft had leaned back into his chair, smiling fondly while Lestrade laughed in answer, dabbing his table cloth against the edge of his mouth.

Distracted by the memory, Lestrade almost jumped when he actually got an answer.

[SMS] ALL THANKS TO YOU, GREGORY.MH

Swallowing at the judicious use of his name when he knew a ‘Detective Inspector’ would’ve done just as well, Lestrade answered quickly to outrace his paranoia.

[SMS] DINNER?

[SMS] TOMORROW. SHALL I FIND YOU THEN?

[SMS] GOD, OF COURSE.

\----------------

John Watson appeared a little more than a year later. By that time Lestrade had happily ensconced himself into Mycroft Holmes’ life (and flat, thankfully with a couch now). Personally he wished John Watson the best of luck.

The expressions of pleasant surprise that crossed Sherlock’s face whenever John conveyed wonder gave him hope.

He didn’t miss the hard look Sherlock gave his nicotine patch when they squared off in the man’s new flat. He never could have quit while they were still together. Smoking breaks had been his only retreat; even when Sherlock joined him he usually kept his mouth shut, distracted by trying to calculate the way the wind and their breaths would make the smoke drift. By the time they’d broken up he’d probably been smoking a pack a day. Hell _Sherlock_ had been smoking a pack a day, among things.

In fact, quitting had been _hard,_ was _still_ hard since he clearly still needed the nicotine on more harrowing days.

The trade-off was definitely fair, in his opinion. He quit smoking, Mycroft kept to his diet (although hell if he cared, really, but it made the other man happy) and meanwhile they were both in better shape to get up to- well, whatever they felt like. It was nice- more than nice: wonderful.

He laughed that night, over good food, good wine, good conversation and good _company_ , that Sherlock was still making cracks about Mycroft’s (currently _finally_ approaching stable) weight. It felt a little like Sherlock was still bitter, which actually made him feel sort of good.

Not because he wanted the younger man to be unhappy, never that, but because it meant their relationship had _meant_ something to Sherlock. Although, to be fair, he wasn’t really that fussed about it anymore.

So yes. Best of luck to John Watson and Sherlock Holmes. Everyone should be this happy.


End file.
